


birds all sing (as if they knew)

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Humor, Language, Misunderstandings, they curse a lot because they mad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 20:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14269035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "How do you spell 'engagement'?""Who are you texting?""Tim."





	birds all sing (as if they knew)

**Author's Note:**

> birthday present for my friend~
> 
> okay i haven’t written in forever so go easy on me pls and also okay this is some sort of AU because I don’t even know where this is supposed to be this is NOT new52 this is NOT retcon and this isn’t even the original canon so this is just me, a girl, standing in front of an audience of readers, asking them to love her

"How do you spell 'engagement'?"

Bruce looked up from his book. Cassandra was (disallowably) perched on the coffee table, criss-cross, peering down into her phone with an expression of mulish frustration.  

Bruce quirked an eyebrow. "E-n-g-a-g-e-m-e-n-t," he recited. At her nod of approval, he asked, "Why?"

She shrugged.  

Bruce watched her for several minutes, but she let on no indication, no hint, as to what the matter entailed. 

"Who are you texting?" he asked (because you couldn't  _demand_  things with Cassandra. She got stubbornly silent and would go to her grave without moving an inch. In fact, she had (twice), but that was another matter entirely). 

"Tim," she supplied, quickly enough. She looked up to find Bruce's brow furrowed. She reached over and tapped his forehead. "Wrinkles," she reminded him. 

He made a face at her. "I'm not a model," he reminded her gruffly.

"But looks," she said sadly. "All you have left." 

She laughingly caught his hand just seconds before he pinched her.

* * *

 

"Did we schedule a meeting I forgot about?"

Bruce peered into the bin beside Tim's desk. "No," he answered. 

There were college brochures in the bin.

The SAME college brochures Bruce had left for Tim to "peruse" on his desk just yesterday afternoon. 

Yesterday afternoon when he had gathered every single college brochure within a 100-mile radius because he had found paperwork for a townhouse in the new development on Dahlia Avenue near the graduate campus of Gotham U. 

Also when he had found an engagement ring in Tim's closet. 

"Not to be  _that guy_  but," and here Tim stood up, joints cracking after sitting so long, "why are you here?"

Bruce pasted a smile on his face. "Can't a man visit his business partner without suspicion?" At Tim's blank look, he amended, "I'm running out for lunch. The Thai place. You want anything?" 

"God, yes," Tim sighed. "The Som Tum, please." 

The man nodded, hands deep in his pockets. He gazed outside the window, taking in the glare of the sun. 

"Anything new?"

A crinkle of paper. "Besides this new contract kicking my ass? Not much." 

Bruce turned around, examining Tim's desk. A couple pictures. One of the family, another of Tim out with his friends. Also, peculiarly, one of the dog. "How's Stephanie?"

"Good...?" Tim made a noise in the back of his throat. "Are you two fighting again? Because I can never tell when you guys are fighting with each other because it's like, fun, or if you're actually mad at each other."

"We're not fighting." 

"Look, just, whatever it is, text her. Like she'd appreciate that more than skulking around. Man," Tim complained, crossing his arms and leaning against his desk. "She gets so butthurt when you send a group text and she has to learn about it from me or Cass. Like, I get that it's a  _family_  group chat but Barbara is in there and so is Selina so I don't think--"

"We're not fighting," Bruce repeated. 

Tim met his gaze, disbelieving, but Bruce met him head on. 

"We are not," he clarified once more. "I was just checking in. Seeing if there are any new developments." 

Tim shrugged. "Not since the tattoos."

"Don't remind me." Bruce closed his eyes. Obviously Tim wasn't going to be open about his circumstances. Furthermore, he wasn't going to crack under pressure. His children were stubborn that way. 

Bruce supposed the only thing left to do was to sit and wait for Tim to approach him. He could hold off on his "nineteen is quite young to be getting married" speech for at least several months. He was a patient man.

"Alright then, Som Tum." He turned to go. He paused at the doorway, looking over his shoulder. "Anything else?" 

Tim bit his lip, looking at the man helplessly. 

Bruce held himself very still. 

It was important to always be accommodating to others' needs when the time arose. Bruce found that very little external stimuli caused people to feel more comfortable when confessing, and thus admit to details they would suppress had not been for the general laid-back atmosphere. 

Tim was holding himself very still as well, looking unsure and (Bruce couldn't help thinking so) all the more young for it. Instantly he thought back on the five-foot-nothing kid on his doorstep, hair just a tad too long to be fashionable and bangs in his eyes.

"Batman  _needs_  a Robin," he had pleaded, hand on Bruce's forearm.

The man in the suit--more boy, really--resembled that image more than Bruce had realized, and he was decidedly all the more uncomfortable for it. 

"Yes," Tim whispered, voice low enough that Bruce's breath nearly caught. He forced himself to breathe out of his nostrils. No matter what happened, no matter what Tim told him, Bruce was going to remain calm. What happened in this office would be dealt with, and Bruce could help Tim navigate his way out of the scenario he erroneously found himself in. 

(Inwardly, Bruce scoffed. Nineteen.  _Really_.) 

Tim hadn't said anything else, so Bruce slowly turned himself around. 

Several minutes passed, Tim looking at the man he had known as a father for several years, brow furrowed in consideration

"What else?" Bruce finally said. He let his voice soften. "What else do you need?"

Tim met his eyes. Bruce's fists clenched.

 _So young_.

"...The roti." 

What?

"What?"

"The roti bread?" Tim repeated. "I was thinking maybe the zucchini but no, I definitely want the roti." 

Bruce stood there, adrenaline seeping out of his bones. 

"That's it?" he asked brusquely, not a little annoyed to be put through the emotional ringer in under five minutes. 

"Yeah," Tim nodded. He almost beamed at the thought of the upcoming food. "That's it. Thanks, Bruce!"

"Don't mention it," he growled, marching out the office.

* * *

 

Bruce texted Stephanie two days later, wasting no pleasantries. 

 

 

> **Bruce Wayne:** Do you have something to tell me 
> 
> **609-322-4356:** fine
> 
> **609-322-4356:** i ate all your girl scout cookies 
> 
> **609-322-4356:** and i don't regret it 

 

Bruce clicked off his phone in disgust. 

* * *

 

The office visits continued to an alarming degree, at least from Tim's perspective. 

The food offerings became less of a sweet deal and more of a contract bound by a pound of (added) flesh. This, Tim could tolerate. 

If it wasn't for the  _conversation_.

"Of course, Princeton has plenty of programs that you would find to your liking," Bruce was saying. Tim looked down at his fountain pen and considered shoving it through his eyeball and ending it right then and there. "My father went to Princeton, as did my mother. It's a good school."

"I know," Tim replied dully, still considering the fountain pen. "My dad went there too."

"Oh?"

That caught Bruce's interest. Tim winced. "Yeah," he said. Then he brightened. "My mom went to Gotham U, though," he added, looking up and twirling a little in his seat. "She really liked it there."

Bruce suddenly looked a bit green at the suggestion. "Y-e-s," he drawled, jaw clamped tight. Tim didn't understand why the idea was so distasteful.

"Plus," he mentioned, "Steph goes there."

It wasn't long after that that Bruce took his leave. 

Just what the hell was going on?

Tim stared after him, sighing and brushing five more college brochures into the trash bin. 

* * *

 

The boy was an obstinate, secretive brat. 

Bruce gazed down at the surreptitious snapped photo of the engagement ring. It was a classy ring, that was to be certain. Emerald cut, solitaire, gold band.

Obviously not ostentatious enough for Stephanie. 

Really, did Tim know his supposed-fiancé  _at all_? 

If anything, this just illustrated how unprepared Tim was for marriage, let alone a committed relationship. You had to think about someone's wants and desires first and foremost, far beyond your own. You had to work, every single day--no, every single  _minute_ \--at serving someone else. There was no downtime, it was a 24/7 commitment that took blood, sweat, and tears.

Somewhat like Gotham.

A lot like Gotham.

Bruce cleared his throat, thinking back to Jason's crack several months ago. 

"What can we say, we're a polygamist cult," he had laughed, shrugging off his jacket. "We all serve the same mistress."

Tim hadn't negated that; rather, he had smiled and then went on working. 

Oh hell.

Bruce closed his eyes. Tim was capable of being committed and self-sacrificing. He had done so for six years straight, since he was thirteen years old, regardless as to who was watching his back and taking care of him. 

Bruce sighed again, more deeply this time.

"Father? Are you all right?"

"Damian," Bruce replied, not opening his eyes, "Let this be a warning to you: if you ever decide to get married, I'll spank you."

Damian squawked, offended on multiple accounts.

* * *

 

This was getting to be ridiculous.

Tim had ducked out of office hours and hidden out in his apartment just to get away from Bruce. Bruce, you know the guy he actually admired and liked? Well, not anymore. The billionaire had been pulling all the stops these past couple weeks. If he wasn't haranguing Tim about college, he was lambasting him about his living situation. 

Because, that's right, Bruce had noticed his absence at the office and  _ambushed him in his apartment_. 

Tim had yelped the first time, burning his hand on the coffee pot and skittering around in his Green Lantern boxers when Bruce had  _randomly_  appeared in his entryway at  _7 a.m._

"W-when did you get a key?" was the first thing Tim had sputtered upon seeing the six-foot behemoth peek around the corner.

But all Bruce had said was: "Green Lantern? Really?"

Thinking back on it, Tim bristled. It was his apartment. He could wear whatever damn boxers he pleased. 

Bruce had just gotten so--so--so unbearably  _judgmental_. Nothing Tim did was good enough. Which, granted, he was relatively used to that. But not in his home. Not over his damn pillowcases.

"150 thread count? You had better than that in your bedroom at the Manor. Maybe you should move back home."

And that was another thing. The 'moving back home' thing. 

“What’s wrong with moving back home?” Bruce’s glare was pronounced.

“You mean besides the obvious?” Tim was incredulous. He shook his head. “Bruce, last time I lived in the Manor, Damian tried to kill me. And it wasn’t friendly killing. It was very unfriendly, I-will-literally-KILL-you kill you.”

Bruce hummed, pale eyes flitting over Tim’s figure. Tim felt as if he were being sized up for the first time. But not by Batman. No, by _Bruce Wayne_.

“I want you to answer honestly,” the man said later, his voice reaching a deep timbre that Tim had rarely heard before. “Do you really think you should be on your own?” Tim opened his mouth to answer but Bruce continued. “Don’t answer yet. Think about it. You’re very young, Tim. Very young.”

Tim’s ears burned. But Bruce was already back to inspecting the apartment. He stopped in the hallway.

"Bosch?" The distaste was practically dripping.

"I like the colors," said Tim defensively. He felt sort of hollow inside. It was stupid but...Bruce was hurting his feelings. 

God, how pathetic was he? 

Bruce hummed again. Tim felt small.

* * *

 

“UPenn is just a state over,” Bruce was saying.

“Yeah,” Tim said noncommittally. He swung his feet under his desk.

* * *

 

“Why did you choose leather?”

Tim shrugged.

* * *

 

“My grandfather went to Yale. There’s a dorm named after him. You could room there.”

“Maybe.”

* * *

 

 "Are you thinking of moving somewhere else?"

Yes. 

Fat chance he was telling Bruce that now, though. 

"No."

"Then moving back home won't be an issue."

The newly signed lease on the townhome burned like a firebrand in his dresser drawer. Tim held off a shudder. Is this what Poe felt like all the time? No wonder he drank. 

* * *

 

“Cousin Bette went to UCLA—”

“ _Bruce_ ,” Tim moaned wearily. “Can—I mean—can you _please_ —” He placed his head in his hands. “I appreciate you coming in but I really need time to work.”

And to _breathe_ , Tim thought to himself.

Bruce gazed at him, eyes as clear and as sharp as a glacier.

Tim rubbed at his temples. He could feel a headache coming on.

“Very well,” said Bruce, tone clipped. “I’d like you to visit the Manor tomorrow, six o’clock. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes,” Tim said. “Whatever. Sounds good. I’ll be there.” _Please just go away_.

Bruce searched his face for several moments. Tim met his eyes tiredly, mustering a tiny smile. Bruce stepped back. “You are very young, Tim,” he intoned gravely. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And with that, he was gone.

Within an instant, Tim ripped up the UCLA brochure and dumped it in the trash.

 

* * *

 

The next evening Tim knocked on the study door, holding in a yawn.

Bruce looked up from his papers and gestured him in. Tim slunk in with a smile, closing the door behind him. He folded himself into one of the deep chairs across from his desk, wiggling to make himself comfortable. Finally, he brought his knees to his chest. “So, Boss,” he said, “what’s up?”

"I think you should quit your job."

Silence.

“Huh?”

White noise filled the air. Tim swallowed, watching Bruce’s mouth move. What the—what _the_ —

"—And the company doesn't need you," Bruce was saying. "I could easily find a replacement--"

What. the. fuuuuuuck. 

"I'm not quitting," Tim interrupted. "That's _my_ job, I'm the one who brought in solar energy, who made the transition to sustainable practices. Furthermore, I have complete control of the niche market of college-age young adults, and I was the one who developed an internal stock system with the WayBucks. I have so much on my plate, it would take…five guys to replace me, _at least_.”

Bruce tilted his head. “I don’t doubt that. And thanks to your hard work, that’s possible. We can make WayBucks its own department, even move it into that new suburban pop-up.”

Tim laughed. “I can’t believe this.”

“Tim.” Bruce’s eyes were soft. “You’re young. You don’t need to settle so early in the game.”

“Settle?!” Tim sputtered. “I’m the acting CEO!”

“Exactly.” Bruce stuck his tongue in the inside of his cheek. “You’re nineteen, Tim. You are so young, you have no clue what’s ahead of you. You should enjoy your youth. It would be a _shame_ ,” he intoned, “to _commit_ to something rather _permanent_ while you are so _young_.”

“I-I can’t—I can’t b-believe—” Tim groaned, dry-washing his face.

“I know you’re upset—”

“UPSET?!” Tim bellowed. He heaved several shallow breaths, trying to laugh but not quite making it. “Why would I be upset?” Tim spat. “Because you’re fazing me out? Fazing me out so five fucking guys can take my place, hang out in the suburbs and leech off of Wayne Enterprises?”

“Listen to me—”

“No, NO, no I’m not going to listen to you—”

“I’m grateful for the work you’ve done,” he snapped. “But your place is _no longer there_. You. are. better. off. at. school.”

Tim paused. “I’m not going to school,” he sighed. He ran his hands through his already mussed hair. “Besides that, the board won’t stand for it.” This would work, this would work. It couldn’t happen. He had put his heart and soul into this job, worked long hours, never asked for anything more. Nothing, nothing, nothing more. Tim didn’t realize he was muttering to himself until he noticed the silence on Bruce’s end. He stopped.

Bruce gazed at him. "I don't need your approval to take action."

"You're--you're--" Tim's mind boggled. "You're  _firing_  me?"

Cool voice. "If I have to."

Tim blinked. The odds trickled down like a game of tetris. No apartment. No job. What next, Red Robin? W-what was going on here? Bruce was—what? Kicking him out of the family? Didn’t want him here anymore? After everything he had worked for? 

One thing was for certain: Tim was not going down without a fight.

He swallowed.

“You’re not firing me, Bruce,” Tim promised. His voice was soft, unassuming. “I think you’re underestimating my presence in the company.” The sun was setting and the study had an unearthly red glow. The bags under his eyes looked like a keening violet, and his bloodless lips were chewed white.

The man raised an eyebrow. “And I think your presence is better suited without the company. I want you to have a _life_ , Tim.”

“ _This is my life_.”

Bruce shook his head. “Then I’m sorry.”

A bitter scoff. “Yeah.” He stood up. “I am too.”

Bruce closed his eyes. This hadn’t gone as bad as it could have. Still… “Tim,” he called before he reached the door. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“Yep.” The door opened. “Stay the fuck away from me.”

The door slammed.

Bruce opened his eyes. Well. At least that wasn’t a wedding announcement.

 

 


End file.
